


Don't Go Molting Now

by Hedgehog-o-Brien (Roshwen)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is a sappy softie who thinks too little of himself, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, NOT wing fic, Or Gen if you want to, Post-Apocalypse conversation, Pre-Slash, Thank Someone Crowley is there to help him, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, thought I should point that out to avoid disappointment lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 15:57:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19794175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roshwen/pseuds/Hedgehog-o-Brien
Summary: ‘It’s just that I… I wanted to be right too,’ Aziraphale told his toes. ‘I wanted Heaven… I wanted the angels, even Gabriel, especially Gabriel, to… to do the right thing, for once, and not the righteous. Even though I knew, deep down, that they wouldn’t.’ He looked up, finally, and gave Crowley a smile that hurt the demon like hellfire never could. ‘You must think me very silly.’Or: After dinner drinking, bookstore, late night conversations. You know the drill.





	Don't Go Molting Now

It was three days after the Apocalypse that Never Was. It was one day after Heaven and Hell had finally decided who was to _blame_ for the Apocalypse that never was. It was twelve hours after they had both ‘recalled’ their agents gone rogue, six hours after said agents had been unceremoniously dumped back on to earth by a shaky underling, three hours after a celebratory dinner at the Ritz and two and a half hours after the first bottle of Aziraphale’s newly restored wine collection had been opened up.

It was also two hours and twenty-five minutes after a little mishap, when Crowley had victoriously unearthed a bottle of Talisker 25 from the back of the cupboard which, upon opening, turned out to be apple juice. Adam apparently knew what wine was supposed to be like, but had not gotten the hang of whisky yet.

Well. One little miracle made short work of that, and here they were, two and a half hours of drinking later. The bookstore was dark: only the streetlights outside and Aziraphale’s little desk lamp were casting a yellow glow into the gloom. It was quiet, too; for all that it was Friday night in SoHo, with its theatre goers, drunken tourists and the occasional resident just trying to make it home after a long day to start drinking in the weekend, the silence in the bookstore might well have led you to believe it was standing on the moon. There was nothing but the faint buzzing of the desk lamp, the clink of classes and the occasional ‘oh bugger’ when a wobbly glass-to-mouth exercise went awry at the last moment.

Crowley, incidentally, was making these exercises even harder on himself by lying on the tartan sofa, legs dangling over the armrest and hand waving at the ceiling as if he were directing an invisible choir of angels and humming, not quite under his breath.

‘ _Joy to the world, the lord didn’t come._ _Dum dum dum dum dum dummmmmm….’_

Aziraphale, slouching in his arm chair, sniffed but didn’t comment. Instead he seemed to be trying to decide which of the three glasses on the desk, which was wavering in and out of his vision, he was going to try and pick up.

He settled for the one in the middle. That seemed a safe bet, until he missed and his hand slammed down on the table, making Crowley jolt upright. ‘Wha…’

‘I’m sorry.’

Aziraphale slumped, hand still on the table and fingers curling as if he were holding an invisible glass. ‘I’m sorry, Craw… Crowley. I’m sorry.’

Oh, that was bad. Crowley had not really been paying attention to… well, anything for the past hour or so, but if Aziraphale started going on an ‘ _I’m sorry_ ’ loop _and_ calling him by his old name to boot, then something was very, very seriously wrong.

He sat up. His head and vision swam for a moment, until he forced himself to sober up a bit. Not getting rid of all the alcohol; that would be a waste and did not seem appropriate, but enough to be able to hold a half-decent conversation.

‘You alright?’ he slurred carefully.

Stupid question. Aziraphale, blue eyes unfocused, white curls unkempt and generally looking disheveled as Crowley had ever seen him, seemed utterly wretched, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I think you’ve established that, angel. What’re you sorry _for?’_

Silence. Then a moment’s concentration, a deep frown etching itself in Aziraphale’s brow and his face cleared a little, his eyes regaining a bit of their usual sharpness. He looked at Crowley, who felt something heavy drop down into his stomach: if this was going to be one of those half-sober, half-drunk conversations, there were any number of topics to pick and ways to go and he wasn’t sure he was ready for any of them.

_(You go too fast for me. I forgive you. Just enough of a good person.)_

‘I’m sorry,’ Aziraphale said again, just in case Crowley had not heard him the first four times. ‘Sorry. For not listening to you. You… were talking about sides earlier and telling me that we did not have one, not really and I… I knew you were right.’

Crowley blinked. He had suspected… no, if he was honest with himself (and he usually was, despite all the evidence to the contrary), he had known Aziraphale’s stickiness to rules and righteousness had been born out of desperation, rather than certainty. The angel tended to do that, tended to put up a front as a way of avoiding an unpleasant truth. He’d done it in 3004 BC, in 33 AD, in 1492, and, on one memorable occasion, in 1933. After six thousand years of _it’s ineffable,_ Crowley knew his angel and he knew his way of (not-)Dealing with Things.

But he hadn’t _known_ known. Not this time. He sat up, slowly, mouth dry. His sunglasses had been discarded ages ago, and he stared at Aziraphale with unblinking yellow eyes.

‘It’s just that I…. I _wanted_ to be right too,’ Aziraphale told his toes. ‘I wanted Heaven… I wanted the angels, even Gabriel, _especially_ Gabriel, to… to do the right thing, for once, and not the righteous. Even though I knew, deep down, that they wouldn’t.’ He looked up, finally, and gave Crowley a smile that hurt the demon like hellfire never could. ‘You must think me very silly.’

‘No.’ Crowley shook his head, swallowing the pit of hurt and rage that was clawing up into his throat on behalf of his angel. ‘No. Not silly at all.’

He sat up even straighter, until he almost toppled over. He reached out and covered the angel’s hand with his own. This seemed enough to throw Aziraphale out of his maudlin state; he goggled, watching slim, bony fingers curl over his own, slightly stubbier but no less meticulously manicured digits.

A split second, and then he slumped forward, taking hold of Crowley’s hand and gripping it until it hurt. Crowley did not flinch but instead held on just as tight, not letting go for another six thousand years if he had to.

‘You’re not silly, angel,’ he said gently. Then thought for a split second and amended: ‘Or well, yes. You are a bit. No one in their right mind would see the guillotines working overtime in France and go ‘Hey, you know what I’m in the mood for? Crepes!’

‘And brioche,’ Aziraphale muttered. ‘Don’t forget…’

‘Would I ever?’

Aziraphale let out a hiccup that was only part alcohol and Crowley squeezed his hand impossibly tighter. ‘But you’re not silly for having hope, angel. Never. And you’re not silly for wanting to see the best in others either. Not even…’

He trailed off, not sure which to pick of the two options that sprang to mind.

‘Not even that charming fellow Robespierre?’ Aziraphale asked with a sly smile. ‘I have to say, I always thought his ideas had some merit.’

Crowley gratefully took the out. ‘You know, I’m still not sure if he was one of ours or not.’

With that, the melancholy mood shattered. Aziraphale sniggered and Crowley heaved a quiet sigh of relief as they both devolved into a familiar trip down memory lane. It was a long one; six thousand years and though long stretches of it had been very boring indeed, some other times had been _very_ interesting. They talked deep into the night, skirting around some topics (the entire 14th century, for instance), while delving deep into others (1912 and the position of certain ships and demons thereon in the North Atlantic Ocean was good for at least forty-five minutes of almost-shouting (Crowley) and smug sniggering (Aziraphale)).

Somehow, after all the bottles had been emptied and refilled at least once, Crowley found himself lying back on the tartan sofa again, but this time, there was an angel all but curled up against him. The sofa should have been way too narrow and way too ancient to support the both of them, but apparently Aziraphale did not want this to be the case and so it wasn’t.

Crowley did not complain. Especially not when he could bury his nose into golden-white, feathery soft curls that smelled of incense and vanilla, and not when he could feel the beating of Aziraphale’s human heart inside his own chest, warm and steady and alive, and not when Aziraphale, in a moment of bravery, brushed his lips against Crowley’s cheek and whispered: ‘Thank you.’

And Crowley, heart almost filled to bursting with everything he could not say, took a deep breath. He pulled his angel closer and held him there, pressing a brief but reverend kiss to his temple in return.

‘Hope is a thing with feathers, Angel. Don't go molting now.’


End file.
